


Spin

by tofsla



Category: Black Lagoon
Genre: F/M, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-25
Updated: 2011-07-25
Packaged: 2017-10-21 18:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/228066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/tofsla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some people actually don't know what to do with sexual tension even when it hits them over the head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spin

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal in 2008.

She drinks the first can pretty fast, because she's not gonna be waiting long. He'll be here soon. If she takes her time she'll just waste the damn thing.

The second can goes more slowly. Fuck him. If he's gonna show up late, he can wait for her to finish her drink.

Half way through the third can she calls Chang and snarls at him for information and wishes she could threaten him with a gun down the length of the phone. "Quit fucking around," she says when he can't tell her anything. "You're not gonna be out of range forever."

She doesn't put a bullet in the phone, because she doesn't get drunk and shoot shit at random, even if it's provoking her. Not because anyone might call.

Not anyone she wants to talk to.

When she's on the fourth can it's already totally dark out, and it's raining.

"Fuck this shit," she tells the can. "Fuck it all."

The people on the street are huddled, collars turned up to shield their necks or hoods pulled over their hair; every now and then an umbrella scuttles past, an anonymous body hiding underneath it. She doesn't need to be here -- could be back in Roanapur, where there'd be Eda and a whole bunch of other morons to use as target practise, and the beer would be the right kind. Instead she's waiting on some dumbass who's probably got himself caught again, and any minute now it's going to turn out she needs to launch a rescue mission, and _fuck it._ She's had too much beer, or not enough, and she's not in the damn mood. She'd get to hurt people, and that'd be just fine with her, but the rest is bullshit.

"Hey," Rock says, just when she's about ready to go break shit. His hair is hanging damply in front of his eyes, dripping water down his cheeks. There's a drop gathering on the end of his nose. She kind of saw him coming, but in the dark and the rain everyone looks the same.

The way he reels from her fifth beer can hitting his forehead really should be more satisfying. Actually she just kinda wants the rest of her beer back.

"Lucky I don't shoot you, shithead," she growls. "The fuck's going on?"

"Sometimes things take longer than expected, right?" He doesn't back off. "You should've gone inside to wait."

She growls wordlessly, grabs the last lonely survivor of the sixpack, and kicks the door open. At least he has the sense not to say anything fucking stupid like _You sound like you were worried._ He's not totally suicidal yet.

The stairs spin and shift and try to dodge her feet, and all that's waiting at the top is a room even more shitty than the one she usually sleeps in, tin roofing that she can already hear the rain beating against like collapsing rubble, shrapnel, the end of the fucking world.

Rock throws her a towel when they make it up there, strips off his heavy coat, rubs at his hair with another. There're damp patches on his shirt around his neck and his wrists, but he doesn't do anything about that. _She's_ soaked through, so she strips down to her underwear, scrubs savagely at her skin and even more savagely at her hair, throws her self down on the bed, on her stomach, arms crossed under her head. The room swims like a mirage.

"Beer's in the cupboard," she says. "Catch the hell up. Not going anywhere tonight." Chang can go fuck himself. He loves himself enough and all. Or he can go play games with Balalaika, for all she cares, so long as he doesn't get himself killed before he hands over the rest of the cash.

Rock, sitting just that fraction too stiffly at the foot of the bed, drinks with determination. Nothing half-assed about it. It's always been one of his better points.

"This kinda work's bullshit anyway," Revy says.

Rock shrugs. "You don't need to keep coming with me."

"Like hell I don't."

Rock doesn't answer. He's busy drinking. Valid excuse, if there's any such thing.

"Rock," she groans, and realises she doesn't actually know what she's gonna say next; her mouth is going on autopilot. "Gimme a smoke." Oh. That's all. Okay.

Rock kinda looks like that wasn't what he expected her to say either. Fine. That makes two of them.

He lights a cigarette anyway, takes a drag and then hands it over, leaning over her along the length of the bed to pass it over. She rolls over onto her back to smoke without setting fire to anything, and for a moment he's kneeling over her, staring down at her.

It shouldn't be possible for that moment to be so totally unsexual. Oh, Rock. Might be just as well.

Or not.

Yeah, not.

Fuck.

She stares at the ceiling instead of at Rock, partly just 'cause it calls for less focus, and smokes, and smokes, and smokes.

Eventually Rock tumbles down onto the bed next to her, still totally dressed. She's pretty spaced by then, and everything's lagging, and when she moves her body feels way too light.

When Rock throws an arm across her stomach it's kinda good. Sorta. Even though she can feel tomorrow's headache lurking around, waiting to pounce.

And then she's out, before she can even ask him what the shit he's waiting for.


End file.
